


Compartment 6

by casstayinmyass



Category: Murder on the Orient Express (2017), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Attraction, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Coitus Interruptus, Drinking, Eventual Sex, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Josh Gad - Freeform, Kissing, Minor Spoilers For MOTOE, Mrs. Hubbard Is A Cockblock, Murder Mystery, Period Typical Attitudes, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Vaginal Sex, Yes He Deserves His Own Tag - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 00:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11771988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: You embark on your journey to Istanbul on the great Orient Express, and are placed- quite accidentally- with the very young man you'd been eyeing, Hector MacQueen. You get closer to him, but when the train stops and a terrible murder takes place, you must think fast... sharing a cabin with someone who can protect you isn't a crime, is it?





	Compartment 6

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so Josh is really hot, and I think he's going to be amazing as MacQueen in MOTOE. This is a little something I wrote mainly to satisfy my Gad-feels, but if you enjoy him as well, I hope you'll enjoy this!

This is it.

This is finally the big ticket... to Istanbul of course. You had purchased one for a first class compartment on the Orient Express, a rather well-furnished train on its way to your destination to visit your brother, and it excited you to no end.

Arriving at the station, you clutch your bag as you survey the passengers. Some look very friendly indeed... others seem rather prickly. There is one man in particular, in his mid 40s perhaps, that doesn't look like someone you'd wish to approach. He has a curious scar through his eyebrow, and a hard stare that promised grisly tales not for the faint of heart or mind. Further right, stands a smart, young looking couple, the woman with short brown hair and a tweed dress, accompanied by a man with dark skin and charming eyes. He looks especially intelligent... she looks mysterious, as if her identity was a charade.

Of course, that was just stuff and fancy. The couple could be the most boring of the lot, for all you know.

Another gaggle of elites- a smiling foreigner that seems to you to be Cuban, a blonde woman with pursed lips and eyes that seemed the type to pry into everyone's business. Then your attention is promptly drawn to the man approaching the gentleman with the hard stare, a smartly dressed man with coiffed hair and a mustache. He is carrying a briefcase, and seems to know the other man quite well, leaning into him to speak.

As he speaks to the other man, you admire him closely. His eyes are dark, but you could tell they sharpened a little upon approaching the man. This one is tall, though not as such as some of the other male travellers. He has a thin mustache, one that might have been unflattering to another, but it suited him. He's a little heavyset, and from what you could see of his forearms, he has a lot of strength in the way he was carrying those cases...

The whistle of the train blows, jolting you out of your fantasy, and you exhale in relief.

"Anxious to get out of those, are you darling?" A voice with a thick accent asks you, and you turn with a pleasant smile to find a sultry looking blonde in a bejewelled black dress.

"To what are you referring?" you ask, blushing a little.

"Your shoes," she smiles back, sighing. "Lord knows mine kill me."

" _My love_!" A man with a sharp Hungarian accent shouted, and the lady bowed her head, rejoining who looked to be her husband. He puts a protective arm around her, nodding to you politely but without warmth. Just then, as the conductor announces that the train would be leaving the station, you realize just how true the woman's presumption had been- these "sensible" shoes that salesman in Baghdad had sold you are painfully pinching your toes.

Crushing your hopes of attainable comfort, though, upon boarding you're held back.

"Pardonez moi, madmoiselle," the attendant says, honest sympathy in his eyes, "Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Oui," you respond, "Yes."

"There seems to have been an unexpected mistake- this train is over capacity."

"What?" you frown, concern rousing. You had to be at your destination on time- you just couldn't keep your brother waiting, what with all the excitement around your visit.

"Mademoiselle will have to wait for the next train, I'm afraid."

"Please sir... there's nothing you can do?" you ask, borderline begging. He sighs, and looks behind him, shouting something in French to his coworkers. Then he beckons you to follow, taking your luggage and helping you on.

"Merci beaucoup," you smile gratefully, clutching your chest, and follow him down.

"Compartment 6, mademoiselle," another attendant tells you, and directs you into the one near the very end. You thank them again, and open the door- to find the assistant with the mustache from the station, removing his jacket.

"Oh!" you startle, heat flaring up inside of you and rushing to your cheeks, and he clears his throat.

"Pardonez... moi, uh, mademoi... uh, miss," he tries in terribly broken French, frowning, "I believe you've happened upon the... uh, je connais... je connais-"

"I speak English," you tell him in amusement at his vexed expression, "I'm from London." _He's even more attractive in person._...

 _Irrelevant_ , you correct yourself, and straighten your skirt.

He breathes a sigh of relief, and rubs his forehead as he offers you a small smile. "Sorry, um... yeah, it seems you've stumbled into the wrong room." His eyes meet yours, and despite the fact you're currently removing your shawl, he makes a point not to look down over your body, maintaining propriety.

 _More than most men would have done,_ you note with a quirked brow, _at least where you're from._

"I've... actually been moved here," you inform him slowly, "Apologies, it was quite abrupt. The train was mistakenly over booked, and now... they've tried to accommodate me."

"Ah," he mutters. You open your mouth slowly, apprehension rising at the perplexed wrinkle in his brow.

"...At your expense I see, sir- oh, it's frightfully rude of me to impose-"

"No no, it's no trouble," the young man shakes his head quickly, "Not at all, not to have a lovely girl- uh, lady- like yourself with me. But I'll go see if they can switch you again. For the sake of your convenience, of course! Kinda inappropriate for a lady to share a compartment with uh, a man she's never met. A sure oversight on their part."

"Well, I'm sure it's only temporary," you assure, biting your lip nervously. You felt oddly desperate to stay with this man... there was something enigmatic about him. He eventually nods, and offers you another smile.

"I suppose I should introduce myself, then. Hector MacQueen."

"(y/f/n) (y/l/n). You're American?" you smile.

"That I am."

"I haven't met many here- except for Mrs. Hubbard, next door."

"God, I pity anyone who's had to acquaint themselves with that woman."

You let out a soft giggle of surprise. This man was a little more forthright than you had expected. "May I?" you ask, taking another step in.

"Oh, please!" he takes your things like a gentleman, and sets them down on the bed opposite his, wringing his hands. "Hopefully they get this sorted out. People will begin to get the wrong idea if we're in here too long together."

"Do people often get the wrong idea about you, Mr. MacQueen?" you blurt, red lips twitching up. His gaze lifts.

"Mmm," he affirms with a slight nod, "'Spose I've got the face for it." You smile.

"You strike me as a man who doesn't put much stock into the opinions of others."

He smiles back, eyes narrowing a little. "You're very intuitive."

"So I've been told."

The whistle blows again, interrupting the intensity of your mutual stare, and you're moving.

Later in the dinner car, you observe everyone again, this time with a little more time to really get a sense of character. You see some familiar faces of the passengers at the station, but you see some new ones as well. A staunch looking man with spectacles- you hear the word professor thrown around during introductions he's making to the Cuban- and an old woman whose looks are compensated for by all the gems she's adorned with. _A princess, perhaps?_ Hector sits near you, glancing up every so often and looking away with a blush when you catch him.

You cock your head a little, wondering what to make of your travelling companion. He didn't strike you as awkward by any means- he was charming, wonderfully confident and sure of himself... but something about this situation made him nervous, obviously. It piqued your interest.

 _Maybe it has something to do with that strange man he was speaking to earlier..._ you ponder.

After you had finished eating, you retired to the compartment, walking down the car. On your way, you notice the woman three compartments down from you is staring at you funny. As you make eye contact accidentally with the reputable Mrs. Hubbard, you groan inwardly, and resign yourself to the fact that you would need to properly meet her now.

"Good evening, ma'am," you smile politely, "(y/f/n) (y/l/n)."

"Caroline Hubbard," she responds, and looks over your shoulder. "Now, (y/n), I could've sworn compartment 6 was Mr. MacQueen's compartment!"

"Oh," you blink, and swallow. She's the type who would form opinions, and even worse... spread them. You shrug slightly.

"I believe you've mistaken mine for Mr. MacQueen's," you say, "He's compartment 7."

"But I thought-"

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hubbard," you encourage gently, and the blonde woman huffs a little, nodding.

"Yes, I suppose there are mix-ups all the time. You know, my daughter once took a boat ride where her compartment was switched around with this foreign diplomat's, and all her things were tossed around by the help like stockings in a broken washing machine! Just shameful. Abs-o- _lutely_ shameful. I've got my bearings all wrong, then. Happens sometimes when I'm on trains. My daughter told me to take my night-time pills, but I think she just tells me that 'cause she worries about her mama, bless her heart. Anyway, sleep well." She shakes her head, and you take a breath as she walks away, and steal away into your temporary compartment before the blonde lady can remember any other detail about her daughter to relay to you.

 To your surprise, Hector himself hasn't returned... you hope he doesn't have a run in with Mrs. Hubbard as well once he comes in from dinner.

Not five minutes later, the door to the compartment slides open slowly, revealing your travelling companion.

"Miss (y/l/n)," he nods, closing the door again, and you nod back. After a moment of silence, he turns from getting something from his trunk, and takes a seat on his bed. "Do you enjoy the food on this train?" The question is small talk, but polite.

"I do," you smile, "It's agreeable." He nods as well.

"Do you mind at all if I smoke?" he asks, and you shake your head.

"Not at all."

He smiles in thanks, and opens a dull silver cigarette case - not a particularly expensive one, you notice, like something that that princess might possess, but classier than the crumpled up box you had seen the Cuban produce from his deep pockets in the dinner car.

"So," he strikes a match, inhales, then exhales a thin plume, "What brings you on your travels, Miss (y/l/n)? If I may ask."

"Going to visit my brother," you smile, "His work stationed him in Istanbul."

"Have you seen him in very long?" he asks, and you shake your head.

"That's why I'm so eager to visit him. I do hope the train is on time."

"It should be," Hector says, "Train like this, has a lot of important people onboard."

"Yes?" you inquire, smiling, "Such as?" He blinks.

"Well... there's a princess. There's a professor-" You pride your early assumptions- "There's a doctor. There's my..." he catches himself suddenly, then closes his mouth. "Like I said, lots of important people." You narrow your eyes at his catch, but elect to overlook it.

"You seem like a smart man," you murmur, crossing your legs and drumming your fingers playfully, "What's your story?"

"My story?" he starts to reciprocate your smile, reaching back into his breast pocket. "Well, you wanna cigarette too? It's a long one." Just as you're reaching forward with an equally teasing grin to accept it, to your bitter disappointment, three knocks sound on the compartment door. The sound of someone shuffling outside the door interrupts your conversation, and Hector rests his own cigarette in a tray, getting up to pull the door.  

"Yes?"

"Pardon me for the intrusion, monsieur," the attendant offers politely, "But we've found a compartment for the lady."

"A guest didn't show up?" Hector inquires.

"Indeed not, monsieur- fortune favors the punctual, it would seem." He looks on to you with a smile. "Miss (y/l/n)?"

You try to mask your regret, and smile back, nodding to Hector.

"Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again."

"I won't be going anywhere you won't," he responds, humour in his eyes. The look he gives you following sticks with you as you heed the attendant to your private cabin.

You never did have any trouble sleeping in transit, and the rhythmic sound of the tracks beneath you lull you into a long and restful sleep. The next day goes by lazily, meetings with Mr. MacQueen and a couple of the other guests a welcome pleasure. At lunch, you spoke with the kind Mr. Masterman- he was a bit cold at first, until he saw that you were a fellow Brit. You also spoke with Dr. Arbuthnot, as the charming man's name turned out to be, but you two promptly ended your friendly chat when Miss Debenham returned with coffee for her lover, eyes boring holes into you. The sun filtering through the blinds of the train turned to moonlight once more in no time.

This night is a still one. The only noise you can hear is the slow, rhythmic thrumming of the train moving smoothly over the tracks, and the periodic whistle of the northern wind by your window. You have it open a crack to get some air, and upon waking, you stare out at the view of the snowy mountains. It couldn't be earlier than 1 by now, or around then... you can't always sleep immediately while travelling like this, but your compartment is comfortable, so it's only a momentary wake. After a few seconds of tranquility, you hear the shuffling of footsteps down the hallway, and see the flash of a scarlet robe trailing by your door. You yawn, pondering absently who it could be up this late, then drift back off into a deep, restful sleep.

The next day, the train is as still as the night was, and everyone is in a massive kerfuffle.

"What's all this about?" you hiss to Hector, for he's the only one you really know and wish to speak to.

"You haven't heard?!" he hissed back, tying his dressing gown tight, "There's been a murder!"

"A murder?!" you repeat, "Here?!"

"A murder," a man with a large mustache nods at you.

"Who are you?" you ask slowly.

He sticks out a hand. "I am Hercule Poirot, and I am probably the greatest detective in the world."

"Humble too," Hector muttered, and you stifled a giggle as Poirot turned back to you two sharply.

"Monsieur Ratchett was murdered last night in his cabin." He turned to gaze at Hector suspiciously. "How did you know he was dead for certain, monsieur?"

"Me?" Suddenly, MacQueen looks a little nervous. "W-well, he had his enemies."

"Good lord," you murmur, and you look over again to see MacQueen fidget, nerves still present. You narrow your eyes, but realize the matter at hand requires your full attention- this Poirot fellow will be wanting testimonies, you're sure.

As the day goes on, curiosity eats away at you, so you wait until the sun goes down to approach Hector in his cabin.

"What's got you all jittery?" you demand, standing in his doorway, and he frowns back at you.

"Miss (y/l/n)?" he asks. "What are y-"

"Your eyes," you shake your head, "Earlier today, there was something in your eyes, there's _something_ you're not telling me."

"Well, do I have to tell you everything about myself, after knowing you for two days, mademoiselle?!" he returns with defensively, and you open your mouth.

"You seemed perfectly willing to last night over cigarettes, had we not been interrupted, sir!"

Finally, he motions for you to close the door.

"Yeah, alright. You'd better sit down, (y/n)." You do, and incline your head expectantly.

"Mr. Ratchett... was my employer." You think for a second. Yes, that seemed plausible- the way that Hector held Ratchett's bags, the way he followed behind him onto the train. Hearing the truth from Hector put you at ease, mildly... until deduction led you to another troubling thought. Your eyes widen as you begin to inch away from him. His eyes widen as well in panic, and he shakes his head at you desperately.

"No, no! I didn't do it!"

By now, all formality between you two had gone out the window, so you take a seat right on his bed, crossing your arms.

"You worked for him. That must be a motive," you say suspiciously. You maintain your safe distance, despite the redeeming honesty you saw in his eyes.

"I swear, (y/n)... I didn't."

You sigh as well, and let your arms flop. "Fine. Why in hell was your employer _murdered_ , then?"

"I don't know!" he admits with a frustrated noise. Suddenly, a worrisome thought strikes you.

"Suppose... suppose you're next!"

"You don't think that thought hasn't crossed my mind!" he exclaims, "Why do you think I've been so nervous all day?!" He droops. "Oh, that's right. It's because you thought I offed the old bastard."

"But think about this, Hector. He was your employer, and you're associated with him! Suppose the murderer's still _on this train_ , suppose they have a thirst for killing, _you_ would be the next logical victim!"

"Oh, merciful God, you're supposed to discourage that type of thinking!" he mutters, looking utterly terrified, "I need a puff."

"Wait, wait... now, don't panic," you bite your lip, sucking on it thoughtfully. He takes his tray out, and lights up quickly. As he offers it to you and you take a drag as well, another genius idea strikes you, genius in more ways than one. "Hector, that's it!" You smash the cigarette down into the tray by the window, and he jumps. "I'll just have to stay with you tonight."

"What?" This was more of a deadpan on his part than an exclamation of incredulity.

Of course your brilliant proposition had nothing to do with his lips... or the idea of him, covering you with that body while anyone on this train could be walking by and listening... "We should stick together if you're to make it through the night!" _Don't let him see right through you, pleeeease._

"Well, when you put it like that, (y/n)," he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair in exasperation.

"We'll lock it from the inside," you decide firmly, "And listen for any strange noises. Mm?"

"And just where will you sleep?" he demands.

"Oh... somewhere," you protest weakly, and you notice him swallowing.

"Fine. Yeah, okay, fine. I've... got some brandy, or... something that tastes like brandy anyway, that we can... we can share..." By now, he's stating at you a little more intently than before, and you find yourself more than comfortable with the fact.

"Mr. MacQueen..." you whisper, attempting to put the moves on him already, but he forces his eyes up to yours.

"Brandy. Here. On it." You open your mouth, but close it again as you watch him get up and bring out his trunk.

"American?" you ask with a smile.

"Yeah, I told you I was," he replies, puzzled.

"Not you, silly, the brandy," you roll your eyes fondly. He blushes a little.

"Oh! No, this one I got at our last stop." He quirks an eyebrow. "Actually, I think it's Cognac. Either way, it'll get us tipsy enough to forget there's a dead guy I used to work for two cabins down." You cover your mouth at the scandal of it all, and he hands you a glass.

"What did the detective ask you today?" you ask. 

"Standard stuff," Hector tells you, "Nothing too biased. I don't think he suspects me."

"Good."

"You said... your brother worked in Istanbul?" the former secretary brings up. "What kind of work, might I ask?"

"He's a missionary," you explain, thinking fondly of your compassionate older brother.

"Just like that Spanish lady on here," Hector muses. "Hm."

"Did you... like your employer?" you ask him timidly, hoping the question isn't too fresh. Thankfully, Hector didn't seem affected by it.

"Not particularly." He quickly looks back to you. "Is that bad? Speaking ill of the dead, and all that jazz?"

"Nothing we say or do is going to leave this cabin, so I doubt it," you smile. You're sure Hector catches that _'or do'_ by a slight hesitation, but he doesn't say anything.

"Well, okay. There it is. Ratchett wasn't that splendid of a guy. He was shrewd, kind of stingy... paranoid as hell."

"So he knew he was going to get killed?" you propose.

"Maybe," Hector sighs, "I honestly don't know. That man had a lot of secrets." He looks down into his glass, and his knuckles turn a little white, you notice.

"He's gone now," you tell him, "I suppose that's a good thing for you."

"Are you trying to rip a confession outta me?" he smirks, and you laugh.

"No! No, I've established that I'm barricading myself against the killer tonight, not locking myself in with one."

He chuckles, and finishes off his first glass.  

After drinking for a while more and talking about idle things like work and what you do for pleasure, you finally feel the effects of the alcohol.

"Well. You certainly don't believe in prohibition, do you monsieur?" you grin, swirling the last of your third drink. He smiles at you, wide.

"No indeed, miss. Not... at... all."

You stare at him. He's taken a seat opposite you on the bed, and you're very close.

"Hector," you say, and he repeats your name as well.

"Mmm, (y/n)," he breathes.

"I... don't want to die on this train," you tell him, clutching his arm. He regards your hand on him.  

"None do, mademoiselle," he responds philosophically, then a frown overtakes his stupidly stoic face. "Wait..." he scrunches up his nose. "Why would you die? The killers don't want you!"

You pause. "Wait... there's more than-" Suddenly, Hector's eyes widen slightly, and he grabs the back of your head, pulling you in for a kiss. You moan, instantly forgetting about whatever he had said- it was probably just comfort and reassurance, after all. He pulls you closer into his lap, as you wrap your legs behind him and clutch his face. He continues to kiss you breathless as you lose yourself in his touches, hands sliding down your body to cup your breasts.

"Please," you weren't sure what you were asking, but you and he seemed to understand it had been a very long time for both. You needed someone, and you let him know by rolling your hips down against him. He groans, and you smile as you feel his hard cock jerk in his pants.

"We have to be... very quiet," Hector murmurs to you breathlessly, "If the murderer was to enter, we'd... well, we'd need to-"

"Shhh," you put a finger to his lips, and he goes back to kissing you as if both your lives depended on it- an ironic hyperbole. He brings his hands down to unbutton himself, and you pant out his name as you anticipate how big he'll be. You nearly moan again as you feel it, and Hector begins kissing down your neck. Nipping his earlobe, you nudge him to flip over, and he gets on top of you, brown eyes fallen with lust. He looks hungry, as if he wants you every which way- none of this you could have guessed from the quiet man on the platform that day.

You slowly spread your legs for Hector as he slides between them, and it's not long before he's pushed into you.

"I can't believe this is happening," you marvel aloud, "I boarded this locomotive with the pure intentions of visiting my dear brother, and now I've wound up possibly implicated in a bloody murder and making passionate love to a perfect stranger."

"We're not _complete_ strangers," Hector protests with a grunt and a thrust, "We've acquainted ourselves."

"Oh yes," you bite your lip with a giggle, "I suppose that's justification enough. Those shady two, Miss Debenham and Doctor Arbuthnot?"

"What about them?" Hector pants, inclining his head in interest. Another thrust. You revel in the warmth and comfort of his heavy body atop yours.

"Strangers. _Fucking_."

"No!"

"Oh, yes."

"You can tell?"

"Indeed I can, monsieur. I'm sure that curious man, Poirot, will be able to sniff that out on _us_ tomorrow, too."

"Oh!" Hector startles, and you hum.

"But who really- _ohhh_ \- who really cares what anyone on this train can hear or say?" You stare up into his dark brown eyes, "Just people we'll know for a week, at most. Then... we'll never see them again."

"Mhmm... you know, what? You're right. It wouldn't matter if you... begged for me."

"Oh, Hector..."

"Or screamed my name," he growls in your ear, and grins. "You like this, don't you? You fucking love my cock inside of you."

"Ah," your eyes widen. This is very uncharacteristic... but it's fucking arousing. His eyes watch you like you're prey. They'd be described as shifty by anyone else... to you, they're incredibly alluring, intense, fiercely intelligent. More so than anyone gives the man credit for, you predict.

"Say my name," he tells you.

"He- ec... ohhh." His thrusts are increasing in force, and you're fighting to keep it together.

"Say it," he commands, practically snarling, and you let out a choked out moan. 

"Hector!"

"That's it," he breathes, his hips snapping into you, "That's a good girl..." 

Just as the both of you are nearing sweet completion in tandem in the large, dimly lit cabin, you hear a rustling outside the door.

"Hector," you whisper sharply, " _Hector_! Did you hear that?" He stalls, and nods. You incline to hear again, and a thumping noise resounds awfully close.

"Oh dear," he feigns, though his eyes are questionably calm, "They've come for me. What was I thinking, putting you in harm's way?" His disposition has quieted significantly since that display of secual prowess a few minutes ago, and you're not sure if you're relieved or disappointed. 

You both listen, but there's no further disturbances for now... you pat his arm. "Keep going. Finish." He nods once, and keeps thrusting, even faster now. Your eyes close- he's large, and you're sure to feel this all over for days. It's everything you need and more... Hector is so damn polite, and attractive, and amiable-

"Mr. MacQueen?" You both freeze, hearing Mrs. Hubbard.

 _It's two o'clock in the young hours!_ both your eyes seem to scream, but Hector closes his eyes.

"Y-yes?" he replies, taking in a deep breath; he looks not only irritated, but utterly confused. You can't help but smirk at the whole ordeal. Well, _she_ couldn't be the murderer. Not in a million years.

"What are those awful, strange noises I hear? Not you, I hope? Can't be too careful with a crazy murderer running around this place. Saw him myself, I did, but no one believes me. In my compartment last night, I tell you! Anyway, have you fallen ill, Mister MacQueen?"

"Uh, w-well," Hector looks down at you, wincing. He's still inside of you, and you squeeze as he shudders. "Yeah. Yes, I'm afraid I'm a little... ill. Didn't mean to wake you madam, a thousand apologies."

"Oh." The middle aged American woman seemed less than contented with his anti-climactic agreement, but shuffled a little. "Well, there's a doctor on the train if you need! But you know, when I'm ill, my daughter says to-"

"Actually, I think I'll just try and sleep it off, madame," Hector cuts her off before she gets going, "Thank you."

"Oh. Fine, okay, vurry good," she says, and hurries off, murmuring to herself about something. You suppress a laugh, and he pounds twice, three times before you're both coming harder than any of your previous partners had ever been able to satisfy you. After you're done, he pulls out, gets up, and checks the compartment lock again. Untouched, unmoved.

"Safe to... sleep?" he breathes, already drifting, and you nod, curling up next to his warm body under the made sheets. Hector is everything you admire... smart, good looking, and not afraid to lie to protect those he harbours affections for. It appears your bout of whim tonight had paid off with someone you could likely call a friend for the remainder of this exhilarating, frightening journey.

The next day, you slip out of Hector's cabin quite early after a few exchanged kisses, in preparation for being called to be questioned by Monsieur Poirot. Today, he would be asking those he did not get to yesterday everything they knew of Ratchett's murder, and such and such. You didn't know much, but you certainly knew one thing- both yourself and Hector had a viable alibi _last_ night at least, with Mrs. Hubbard to confirm, if the current dirty look she was giving from her cabin was anything to go by now. You blush a little, and turn from her eye line.

Now... back to acting the delicate young lady you are, and keeping good face for the detective so you could return to your brother in Istanbul without hiccup.

"Poor little dove," Mrs. Hubbard murmurs to herself, smirking with poise, "Doesn't know a thing about who she just spent the night with."

**Author's Note:**

> I can't wait for this film to come out, so I'm not the only one writing for this fandom! lol


End file.
